


Paint by Numbers

by theladysnark (corpsesoldier)



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-11
Updated: 2013-02-11
Packaged: 2017-11-28 22:26:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 692
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/679549
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/corpsesoldier/pseuds/theladysnark
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Enjolras tries to paint, Grantaire tries to help, and it all goes downhill from there.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Paint by Numbers

When Grantaire wakes up, Enjolras is missing. He stretches his arm out only to find that the other side of the bed is empty and cold, and tries to stop his heart from sinking. Enjolras is a very busy man and surely he has more important things to do that stick around Grantaire's tiny apartment. He rolls out of bed with a stifled yawn and is stumbling toward the bathroom when he hears a crash and a curse.

He pokes his head around the corner and he is greeted by the sight of Enjolras kneeling on his living room floor, surrounded by a minefield of used paintbrushes, paint jars and makeshift cardboard signs. 

“What the fuck are you doing?” Grantaire asks, trying to suppress a smile at the intense concentration on the other man's face.

“Painting.”

“Is that what you call it?” The majority of the signs are legible, but messy and uneven, most prominently featuring the word REVOLUTION in large red letters. “Do you want some help?”

“I can manage,” comes the short reply. Oh no. He's taken it as a personal challenge.

“C'mon, who's the art major here?” Grantaire kneels beside him and picks up one of the paintbrushes Enjolras had tossed aside, not even bothering to clean the black paint off of it. He bites back a grimace and reaches for one of the finished signs so he could try and straighten the letters.

Enjolras halts his wrist halfway there. “I said I can do it.”

“Don't be a baby, E.” Grantaire tries to wriggle free, twisting his arm uselessly, while Enjolras makes a grab for the paintbrush. They're locked together for a few brief moments before Enjolras breaks free with a cry of triumph, paintbrush held aloft. That is, until he sees the black stripe he made across Grantaire's nose in the process.

“Oh no,” he says, trying to scoot away as Grantaire gingerly touches the mark, staring at the paint that comes away with his fingers. A wicked grin spreads across his face.

“Oh no, no, Grantaire, I'm sorry, you can help.” But Grantaire just slowly reaches down for the closest container of paint, bright red, and dips his fingers inside. They come out dripping.

“Too late for that,” Grantaire says, lunging at Enjolras, aiming for his forehead and instead smearing four lines down his jaw and neck when Enjolras throws himself backwards. Unfortunately, he lands on one of the still drying signs, staining the back of the old t-shirt he wore to bed.

Grantaire can see the other man's eyes harden with blood lust and grins wider, scrambling for another can of paint. Too slow, as Enjolras manages to dump most of the yellow onto Grantaire's head, sending it running through his black curls and dribbling down his cheeks. With a battle cry, he jerks his head forward, flinging drops of yellow paint into Enjolras' face and all over the wall behind him. Seizing his advantage, he leaps forward and catches Enjolras around the waist, sending them both rolling over the half-finished signs. 

Enjolras growls as he tries to struggle, but Grantaire straddles his chest, pinning his arms to his sides, using the reprieve to paint a little red flower on Enjolras' cheek. Suddenly, with a roar and a colossal show of strength, their positions are reversed. Enjolras crouches over him, eyes wild, streaked with red, a devilish smile playing across a face usually so stern. And Grantaire can't take his eyes off his lips.

The fire from their wrestling match flows easily into their kiss, with Enjolras leaning down to capture Grantaire's mouth just as Grantaire surges upwards to press against the length of Enjolras' body. It isn't slow or gentle. They ignite like a match thrown into alcohol, with teeth and tongue and fingers knotted into golden hair. When Grantaire hooks his leg behind Enjolras' knee he withdraws with a reluctant groan, nipping Grantaire's bottom lip as he pulls away.

“I have class in fifteen minutes,” Enjolras says, his attempt at composure undone by his flushed face.

Grantaire, breathless, takes a moment to respond. “Comparative literature. Who needs it?”

And for once, Enjolras agrees.


End file.
